Propaganda 1 (a poem), Copyright 2013 Doug Stuber

Propaganda I

Each day new revelations propel the rightful belief that fascist
crooks have taken over, despoiled, enslaved for their sweet
greens, sun-baked yacht decks that those below still believe they
or their children can attain. The war devolved to occupation,
another war and present-day occupation on the most sought-after
peninsula since 50’s Florida swamp sales. Young studs impress
new ladies with six dollar juices in muggy heat relieved by rain,
only to restart when streets steam up. Camouflage sticks out on
two day leaves that stroll past grandmothers who have seen it all
come and go twice by now. Real happiness outlasts the current boom
by about a year. Ensuing depression is real in emotional, economic,
blood and guts ways that leave mom and two children huddled in the
corner fighting off winter with a single blanket and a three-way
hug. Soon generations realize the sacrifices their parents made
but when the horrors worsen past heroics fade, suppressed by
survival instincts and scrounging for food when the crops no longer
yield seeds just blanks tucked within sterilizing soy beans. How did
we let it get to this, where is the rage? Oh, it’s absorbed in the grind
of 70-hour weeks, trying to keep love alive when the money’s gone,
love songs no longer sung or played, protests go mute on the mall.

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